blindfold_spn fill: Wincest
Jul. 20th, 2010 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
errant_janeI filled two prompts for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
blindfold_spn and this is the first (less pervy) one, originally posted here. It is teenage Wincest, so warnings for underage, I guess? Their ages aren't specifically stated, but Sam is at least fifteen here.
BC Bud
***
There are times when Dean doesn't make the best decisions ever. Case and point: getting stoned with Sam. In Dean's defense, Dad's been gone a week and there's nothing to do. First he drags them up to Bumfuck, Washington and then ditches them at his friend, Andrew's, while he and Andrew take off for a hunt in the Olympic National Forest.
Dean is bored and all he has for entertainment in the middle-of-nowhere logging town is a sullen little brother, cable TV, and the two joints he'd gotten from the semi-hot waitress at breakfast, wrapped in a napkin with her phone number written on it. While Dean would typically be more than willing to take her up on the offer, she's also wearing a ring, which means she's already married or good as, and he has no interest in pissing off some butch, burly lumberjack when he has no means of escape.
So he and Sam are stuck in Andrew's house, watching a South Park marathon, and while Dean has never had an overwhelming desire to toke up, he figures it's a way to pass the time. Plus, even he's heard of "BC Bud" and he figures if nothing else, Sam on drugs has the potential to be pretty fuckin' hilarious.
Sam is surprisingly easy to convince, which means he must be as bored as Dean is.
The first joint doesn't do much and Dean's a little disappointed. Sure, watching Sam hack up a lung had been funny, right up to the point where Dean did the same thing, coughing as the smoke burned his throat, his eyes watering. So, they start in on the second and halfway through, Dean thinks that maybe they should have given the first one a few minutes to kick in.
His head is pleasantly fuzzy and he can feel himself grinning. When he looks over at Sam, he's grinning too, which is a nice change. More often than not these days, Sam's kind of a little bitch. The thought strikes Dean as hilarious and he starts to laugh. "Bitch," he says at Sam's startled look.
"What? Shut up. I didn't even say anything you jerk." Sam shoves his shoulder, but he's still smiling and eventually he starts to laugh, too.
Dean likes that— Sam laughing and happy. "Hey, Sammy," he says in his best Cartman voice. "Goddamn rainbows, I hate those fuckin' things."
Sam cracks up, curling on the couch so that he's pressed up against Dean's side. His hand lands higher up on Dean's thigh than Dean would normally consider appropriate, but Sam is still snickering, his breath hot and damp against Dean's neck and it's nice. So Dean buries his fingers in Sam's hair and says, "No, kitty! That's a bad kitty!" It's really the voice more than what he's saying and if it keeps Sam laughing like that, Dean is ready to talk like Cartman all night.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam pushes himself up so that he can look at Dean, his hand inching higher up on Dean's thigh. "Wanna get some pizza?"
"Uhhh." Sam's fingers are kind of kneading where his hand is resting, and Dean's vaguely horrified to realize that his stupid cock has become interested in the proceedings. It obviously doesn't know the difference between being deliberately felt-up and Sam's stoned, accidental fumbling. "No cash, Sammy. I think there's Fritos in the kitchen, though."
He breathes a sigh of relief as Sam gets up and goes in search of some munchies. As soon as he's rounded the corner, Dean reaches down to adjust— he's already half hard as he rubs himself through his jeans. He's not really intending to get off or anything, and by the time he starts thinking about it, he's sporting some impressive wood. Before he can follow through with the thought that he should go to the bathroom and take care of it, though, Sam is stumbling back into the room clutching the bag of Fritos like a prize. Now Dean is torn between getting off and having some chips.
Sam flops back down on the couch, dropping the bag in his lap, and since chips are the option that doesn't require Dean to move, he reaches in for a handful.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam turns to look at him, his mouth curved into a mischievous smile. "How pissed would Dad be if he knew we were doing this?"
"Pretty pissed," Dean guesses. It's a constant balancing act for him. Obeying Dad so that he's not disappointed, and then going and doing shit behind his back so that Sam will give him that look. That, you're the best thing ever in the world look. There's a version of that look on Sam's face and a good chance Dad won't ever find out, so Dean's feeling pretty good about himself.
"Yeah." Sam shoves some more chips into his mouth and turns back to the TV.
Dean reaches for another handful, bummed when he realizes the bag's almost empty. He digs around to try and get as much as possible, so preoccupied with it that it takes a minute for him to realize that Sam is wiggling around weirdly. Then he realizes just what his fingers are brushing against under the bag and snatches his hand back.
"Shit, I. Um." When he glances over at Sam, Sam looks about has horrified as Dean feels. His eyes are wide, cheeks pink, and his breathing is shallow.
"Fuck." Sam says, and the word sounds strange in his mouth. Sam doesn't cuss often, definitely not around Dad. It's another thing that's just theirs. Then he starts laughing, sort of awkward and self-conscious at first, but once he gets started, it's like he can't stop and Dean has to join in.
Christ, they're fucked up.
"God, Dean, I—" Sam drops the bag on the floor and curls back up against Dean, his hand on Dean's thigh again. Dean's not sure if it's an accident, but he can tell the exact moment Sam realizes he's hard, too. His laughter tapers off and he says, "Fuck," again in this crazy low voice Dean's never heard before.
"Sammy." Dean doesn't know where he's going with that, so he stops and waits.
Sam moves his hand from Dean's leg to his shoulder, pushing himself up until he's kneeling on the couch. Then he goes and straddles Dean, settling down in his lap, long limbs oddly graceful, like he's been taking a lap dancing class in his spare time.
Dean still isn't used to the fact that Sam's not that much smaller than him anymore. Like the past few years have been one non-stop growth spurt, and having this taller, older Sam in his lap is not the same as when Dean used to hold him as they read bedtime stories together. It's not the same thing at all.
"Sam?"
"Dean." Sam shifts and leans forward, pressing his face against Dean's neck. "I don't know. I just—" He takes a deep breath and shudders when Dean presses his hand against the back of Sam's head.
"It's okay, buddy." Dean's thoughts are hazy and he can't focus or process anything. He's fucked up and aroused and upset that Sam doesn't sound happy anymore. "It's cool, we're cool."
Sam makes a frustrated sound and suddenly his hands are pushing up under Dean's shirt, hot and a little sweaty, and when did Sam's hands get so fucking big?
"Whoa, hey!" Dean grabs Sam's arms to keep him still, move him away, maybe. The petting feels good and Dean is in no shape at the moment to distinguish between good touching and bad. But then Sam leans back, looks at him all imploring and earnest and Dean says, "What do you want?" Because making Sam smile again seems like the most important thing in the world.
"Anything." Sam punctuates the statement with an obscene roll of his hips that makes Dean thrust up against him in response. "Fuck, anything, Dean. Just do something. Please." He leans back down and starts kissing Dean's neck, his hands still under Dean's shirt, moving over his back, his sides, his stomach.
Twisted as it may be, it's not the weed or the petting, but Sam's whispered please that gets Dean moving. Because he's never been good at denying Sam anything that was in his power to give. "Alright, Sammy. Yeah, lemme..."
Dean pushes at Sam's t-shirt to expose his belly and his chest, moving his hands up until Sam leans back and tugs it off. Sam throws his shirt on the floor and bends down again, starts licking and sucking at Dean's neck as Dean fumbles with Sam's pants. He feels clumsy and slow, the urgency buzzing under his skin not quite translating in his movements. Finally, Dean gets the zipper undone and Sam arches up so Dean can shove his jeans and briefs down. They don't go too far due to the spread of Sam's thighs, but its enough to clear his ass and he settles back on Dean's lap with his hips tilted, cock on display.
Sam groans against Dean's neck and bites down hard when Dean gets his fingers wrapped around Sam's cock. "Yeah, Dean. Fuck, fuck," he whispers against Dean's skin as Dean starts to jack him. He rocks up into Dean's fist, his thrusts shallow and constricted by the pull of his jeans across his thighs, and he's making these tiny uhn, uhn, uhn sounds as he moves.
It's the hottest thing Dean's ever heard.
He's not really thinking anything but Jesus, fuck yeah as he grabs the back of Sam's neck with his other hand, drags him from where he's panting against Dean's skin so that he can lick Sam's mouth open and drink in every little noise he's making. It isn't until Sam's tongue slides hot and wet against his that Dean thinks, I'm kissing my baby brother, but the thought disappears as quickly as it came when Sam moans and clutches at Dean's sides, his hips still rocking in jerky thrusts as Dean strokes him off.
It's completely surreal, Sam hard and hot in his hand, bigger than Dean thought he would be. Not that Dean's thought, but fuck. Sam is all over him, this writhing, needy, beautiful kid Dean has loved all his life. Dean wants. He wants every moan, every thrust, every hitch of Sam's breath.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean whispers against Sam's lips. He rubs his thumb over the slick head of Sam's cock, is rewarded with another choked-off groan. "Do it. Let go. I've got you."
Sam full-body shudders and comes, his voice rough and broken as he says Dean's name.
Dean watches as he milks Sam through it, watches the jizz pulse out of him and down over Dean's fist. He's fascinated by it, the sight of Sam's cock disappearing into his fist, then popping back out, and doesn't think to stop until Sam whines and tries to squirm away.
"Sorry." He lets go, suddenly aware of being dangerously close to coming without so much as getting his pants undone. "Shit, shit." Dean fumbles with his zipper, can feel Sam's breath on his cheek as he gets it open and pushes the elastic of his boxers down far enough to get his cock out. "Fuck." He groans as his fingers wrap around his erection, his hand still slick with Sam's jizz.
"Yeah, Dean. Dean. God," Sam whispers. When Dean looks up, Sam's eyes are downcast, his gaze fixed on Dean's hand. On Dean's dick. Dean shifts, trying to spread his legs wider, but Sam's weight across his knees prevents him from moving too far. It doesn't matter. Sam's eyes are half-closed, his lips parted, his breathing still as shallow and choppy as Dean's own. It's like he's so entranced that it doesn't occur to him to even try and help Dean out.
"Sammy, fuck." Dean speeds up his strokes. He cares fuck all for finesse, his whole body is tight with the overwhelming need to get off, to shoot his load with Sam watching him so intently. When Sam's tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, that does it. Dean comes, his eyes locked on Sam's face. He thinks he might never come again without thinking about Sam's expression at that exact moment.
Just one more thing to add to the pile of fucked-up that is their lives.
"Shit," Dean says on an exhale as he lazily strokes the last dribbles of come out of his cock.
Sam looks up at that, his expression almost startled. Like he's not quite sure how he got there.
You and me both, kid, Dean thinks. Out loud he says, "Hey, Sammy. It's cool. We're good."
"Yeah." Sam nods, then shakes his head. He slides his hands out from under Dean's shirt and brings them up to cup Dean's face. Then he leans forward and kisses Dean, this soft, licking kiss that is awkward and sweet and completely heartbreaking.
Dean lets it happen, opens his mouth and kisses Sam back. Closes his eyes as Sam's thumbs stroke over his cheeks, tentative and gentle, as though Dean were some precious, delicate thing.
"It's okay," Dean whispers again when Sam pulls away. "It's fine. This is fine." He smiles when he feels Sam relax against him and repeats the reassurance one more time.
They aren't even in the same time zone as fine, of course, but that's on Dean. It's his job to keep Sam safe.
****
End Note: This is really neither here nor there, but in my head, they are totally in Forks, WA and John and Andrew are off hunting sparklepires. This thought makes me laugh.
blindfold_spn and this is the first (less pervy) one, originally posted here. It is teenage Wincest, so warnings for underage, I guess? Their ages aren't specifically stated, but Sam is at least fifteen here. BC Bud
***
There are times when Dean doesn't make the best decisions ever. Case and point: getting stoned with Sam. In Dean's defense, Dad's been gone a week and there's nothing to do. First he drags them up to Bumfuck, Washington and then ditches them at his friend, Andrew's, while he and Andrew take off for a hunt in the Olympic National Forest.
Dean is bored and all he has for entertainment in the middle-of-nowhere logging town is a sullen little brother, cable TV, and the two joints he'd gotten from the semi-hot waitress at breakfast, wrapped in a napkin with her phone number written on it. While Dean would typically be more than willing to take her up on the offer, she's also wearing a ring, which means she's already married or good as, and he has no interest in pissing off some butch, burly lumberjack when he has no means of escape.
So he and Sam are stuck in Andrew's house, watching a South Park marathon, and while Dean has never had an overwhelming desire to toke up, he figures it's a way to pass the time. Plus, even he's heard of "BC Bud" and he figures if nothing else, Sam on drugs has the potential to be pretty fuckin' hilarious.
Sam is surprisingly easy to convince, which means he must be as bored as Dean is.
The first joint doesn't do much and Dean's a little disappointed. Sure, watching Sam hack up a lung had been funny, right up to the point where Dean did the same thing, coughing as the smoke burned his throat, his eyes watering. So, they start in on the second and halfway through, Dean thinks that maybe they should have given the first one a few minutes to kick in.
His head is pleasantly fuzzy and he can feel himself grinning. When he looks over at Sam, he's grinning too, which is a nice change. More often than not these days, Sam's kind of a little bitch. The thought strikes Dean as hilarious and he starts to laugh. "Bitch," he says at Sam's startled look.
"What? Shut up. I didn't even say anything you jerk." Sam shoves his shoulder, but he's still smiling and eventually he starts to laugh, too.
Dean likes that— Sam laughing and happy. "Hey, Sammy," he says in his best Cartman voice. "Goddamn rainbows, I hate those fuckin' things."
Sam cracks up, curling on the couch so that he's pressed up against Dean's side. His hand lands higher up on Dean's thigh than Dean would normally consider appropriate, but Sam is still snickering, his breath hot and damp against Dean's neck and it's nice. So Dean buries his fingers in Sam's hair and says, "No, kitty! That's a bad kitty!" It's really the voice more than what he's saying and if it keeps Sam laughing like that, Dean is ready to talk like Cartman all night.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam pushes himself up so that he can look at Dean, his hand inching higher up on Dean's thigh. "Wanna get some pizza?"
"Uhhh." Sam's fingers are kind of kneading where his hand is resting, and Dean's vaguely horrified to realize that his stupid cock has become interested in the proceedings. It obviously doesn't know the difference between being deliberately felt-up and Sam's stoned, accidental fumbling. "No cash, Sammy. I think there's Fritos in the kitchen, though."
He breathes a sigh of relief as Sam gets up and goes in search of some munchies. As soon as he's rounded the corner, Dean reaches down to adjust— he's already half hard as he rubs himself through his jeans. He's not really intending to get off or anything, and by the time he starts thinking about it, he's sporting some impressive wood. Before he can follow through with the thought that he should go to the bathroom and take care of it, though, Sam is stumbling back into the room clutching the bag of Fritos like a prize. Now Dean is torn between getting off and having some chips.
Sam flops back down on the couch, dropping the bag in his lap, and since chips are the option that doesn't require Dean to move, he reaches in for a handful.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam turns to look at him, his mouth curved into a mischievous smile. "How pissed would Dad be if he knew we were doing this?"
"Pretty pissed," Dean guesses. It's a constant balancing act for him. Obeying Dad so that he's not disappointed, and then going and doing shit behind his back so that Sam will give him that look. That, you're the best thing ever in the world look. There's a version of that look on Sam's face and a good chance Dad won't ever find out, so Dean's feeling pretty good about himself.
"Yeah." Sam shoves some more chips into his mouth and turns back to the TV.
Dean reaches for another handful, bummed when he realizes the bag's almost empty. He digs around to try and get as much as possible, so preoccupied with it that it takes a minute for him to realize that Sam is wiggling around weirdly. Then he realizes just what his fingers are brushing against under the bag and snatches his hand back.
"Shit, I. Um." When he glances over at Sam, Sam looks about has horrified as Dean feels. His eyes are wide, cheeks pink, and his breathing is shallow.
"Fuck." Sam says, and the word sounds strange in his mouth. Sam doesn't cuss often, definitely not around Dad. It's another thing that's just theirs. Then he starts laughing, sort of awkward and self-conscious at first, but once he gets started, it's like he can't stop and Dean has to join in.
Christ, they're fucked up.
"God, Dean, I—" Sam drops the bag on the floor and curls back up against Dean, his hand on Dean's thigh again. Dean's not sure if it's an accident, but he can tell the exact moment Sam realizes he's hard, too. His laughter tapers off and he says, "Fuck," again in this crazy low voice Dean's never heard before.
"Sammy." Dean doesn't know where he's going with that, so he stops and waits.
Sam moves his hand from Dean's leg to his shoulder, pushing himself up until he's kneeling on the couch. Then he goes and straddles Dean, settling down in his lap, long limbs oddly graceful, like he's been taking a lap dancing class in his spare time.
Dean still isn't used to the fact that Sam's not that much smaller than him anymore. Like the past few years have been one non-stop growth spurt, and having this taller, older Sam in his lap is not the same as when Dean used to hold him as they read bedtime stories together. It's not the same thing at all.
"Sam?"
"Dean." Sam shifts and leans forward, pressing his face against Dean's neck. "I don't know. I just—" He takes a deep breath and shudders when Dean presses his hand against the back of Sam's head.
"It's okay, buddy." Dean's thoughts are hazy and he can't focus or process anything. He's fucked up and aroused and upset that Sam doesn't sound happy anymore. "It's cool, we're cool."
Sam makes a frustrated sound and suddenly his hands are pushing up under Dean's shirt, hot and a little sweaty, and when did Sam's hands get so fucking big?
"Whoa, hey!" Dean grabs Sam's arms to keep him still, move him away, maybe. The petting feels good and Dean is in no shape at the moment to distinguish between good touching and bad. But then Sam leans back, looks at him all imploring and earnest and Dean says, "What do you want?" Because making Sam smile again seems like the most important thing in the world.
"Anything." Sam punctuates the statement with an obscene roll of his hips that makes Dean thrust up against him in response. "Fuck, anything, Dean. Just do something. Please." He leans back down and starts kissing Dean's neck, his hands still under Dean's shirt, moving over his back, his sides, his stomach.
Twisted as it may be, it's not the weed or the petting, but Sam's whispered please that gets Dean moving. Because he's never been good at denying Sam anything that was in his power to give. "Alright, Sammy. Yeah, lemme..."
Dean pushes at Sam's t-shirt to expose his belly and his chest, moving his hands up until Sam leans back and tugs it off. Sam throws his shirt on the floor and bends down again, starts licking and sucking at Dean's neck as Dean fumbles with Sam's pants. He feels clumsy and slow, the urgency buzzing under his skin not quite translating in his movements. Finally, Dean gets the zipper undone and Sam arches up so Dean can shove his jeans and briefs down. They don't go too far due to the spread of Sam's thighs, but its enough to clear his ass and he settles back on Dean's lap with his hips tilted, cock on display.
Sam groans against Dean's neck and bites down hard when Dean gets his fingers wrapped around Sam's cock. "Yeah, Dean. Fuck, fuck," he whispers against Dean's skin as Dean starts to jack him. He rocks up into Dean's fist, his thrusts shallow and constricted by the pull of his jeans across his thighs, and he's making these tiny uhn, uhn, uhn sounds as he moves.
It's the hottest thing Dean's ever heard.
He's not really thinking anything but Jesus, fuck yeah as he grabs the back of Sam's neck with his other hand, drags him from where he's panting against Dean's skin so that he can lick Sam's mouth open and drink in every little noise he's making. It isn't until Sam's tongue slides hot and wet against his that Dean thinks, I'm kissing my baby brother, but the thought disappears as quickly as it came when Sam moans and clutches at Dean's sides, his hips still rocking in jerky thrusts as Dean strokes him off.
It's completely surreal, Sam hard and hot in his hand, bigger than Dean thought he would be. Not that Dean's thought, but fuck. Sam is all over him, this writhing, needy, beautiful kid Dean has loved all his life. Dean wants. He wants every moan, every thrust, every hitch of Sam's breath.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean whispers against Sam's lips. He rubs his thumb over the slick head of Sam's cock, is rewarded with another choked-off groan. "Do it. Let go. I've got you."
Sam full-body shudders and comes, his voice rough and broken as he says Dean's name.
Dean watches as he milks Sam through it, watches the jizz pulse out of him and down over Dean's fist. He's fascinated by it, the sight of Sam's cock disappearing into his fist, then popping back out, and doesn't think to stop until Sam whines and tries to squirm away.
"Sorry." He lets go, suddenly aware of being dangerously close to coming without so much as getting his pants undone. "Shit, shit." Dean fumbles with his zipper, can feel Sam's breath on his cheek as he gets it open and pushes the elastic of his boxers down far enough to get his cock out. "Fuck." He groans as his fingers wrap around his erection, his hand still slick with Sam's jizz.
"Yeah, Dean. Dean. God," Sam whispers. When Dean looks up, Sam's eyes are downcast, his gaze fixed on Dean's hand. On Dean's dick. Dean shifts, trying to spread his legs wider, but Sam's weight across his knees prevents him from moving too far. It doesn't matter. Sam's eyes are half-closed, his lips parted, his breathing still as shallow and choppy as Dean's own. It's like he's so entranced that it doesn't occur to him to even try and help Dean out.
"Sammy, fuck." Dean speeds up his strokes. He cares fuck all for finesse, his whole body is tight with the overwhelming need to get off, to shoot his load with Sam watching him so intently. When Sam's tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, that does it. Dean comes, his eyes locked on Sam's face. He thinks he might never come again without thinking about Sam's expression at that exact moment.
Just one more thing to add to the pile of fucked-up that is their lives.
"Shit," Dean says on an exhale as he lazily strokes the last dribbles of come out of his cock.
Sam looks up at that, his expression almost startled. Like he's not quite sure how he got there.
You and me both, kid, Dean thinks. Out loud he says, "Hey, Sammy. It's cool. We're good."
"Yeah." Sam nods, then shakes his head. He slides his hands out from under Dean's shirt and brings them up to cup Dean's face. Then he leans forward and kisses Dean, this soft, licking kiss that is awkward and sweet and completely heartbreaking.
Dean lets it happen, opens his mouth and kisses Sam back. Closes his eyes as Sam's thumbs stroke over his cheeks, tentative and gentle, as though Dean were some precious, delicate thing.
"It's okay," Dean whispers again when Sam pulls away. "It's fine. This is fine." He smiles when he feels Sam relax against him and repeats the reassurance one more time.
They aren't even in the same time zone as fine, of course, but that's on Dean. It's his job to keep Sam safe.
****
End Note: This is really neither here nor there, but in my head, they are totally in Forks, WA and John and Andrew are off hunting sparklepires. This thought makes me laugh.
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Date: 2010-07-21 02:36 am (UTC)Ha!! I lol'd for real.